And you owe it to your Alma Mater, my son! Even if, after conscientious
effort, you fail to win your B, to know that you have given your college
and teams what help you could, will please your Dad. Remember, the fellow
who toils on the scrubs is the true hero. If you become good enough to give
the first eleven, the first nine, the first five, or the first track squad
a hard rub and a fast practice, you are serving Bannister.
I don't ask you to do this, Thomas, I only say that it will make me happy
just to know you are striving. If you never get beyond the scrubs, just to
hear you are serving the Gold and Green, giving your best, in that humble
unhonored way, will please me. And if, before you graduate, you can win
your B, I shall be so glad! Don't get discouraged, it may take until your
Senior year, but once you start, stick.
Your loving
DAD.
"Read this one, too, Butch," requested Hicks, hurriedly, as a hail of, "Oh,
you Hicks, come here!" sounded down the corridor, from Skeet Wigglesworth's
abode. "I'll be back as soon as Skeet finishes his foolishness. Don't wait
for me, though, if I am delayed, for you want to be talking football."
Left alone, big Butch Brewster, who of all the collegians that had known
and loved the sunny Hicks, some now graduated, understood that his athletic
efforts, jeered good-naturedly by the students, were made because of a
great desire to win his B and make happy his Dad, read the second letter,
dated a few days before:
DEAR SON THOMAS:
You are starting the last lap, son, your Senior year, and your final chance
to win your B! Don't forget how happy it will make your Dad if you win your
letter just once! Of course, you cannot gain it in football, for nature
gave you no chance, nor in baseball; but in track work it is up to you.
Train hard, Thomas, and try to win a first place; just win your track B,
and I'll rest content!
Your college record gives me great pleasure. You stand at the top in your
studies, and you are vastly popular, while the Faculty speak highly of you.
Let your B come as a climax to your career, and I'll be so proud of you.
Don't forget, you are the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and those sons of old
Eli want you to win the letter. As to football, you cannot win your gold B
by playing three-fourths of a season's games, but you might get in a big
game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan
about yourself. Don't mind the jeers of your comrades—they just don't
know how you've tried to please your Dad; you owe it to your Alma Mater
to tell, and, take my word as a football star, you have the goods! Your
peculiar prowess has won many a contest, and old Bannister needs it this
season, I hear—
There was more, but big Butch scarcely saw it, bewildered as the behemoth
Senior was; what new mystery had Hicks set afoot? What did Hicks, Sr.,
mean by writing, "You might get in a big game, even win it, if you'll get
confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself? You owe it to your
Alma Mater to tell, and take my word, as a football star, you have the
goods—" Why, everyone knew that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., possessed no more
football ability than a Jersey mosquito, and yet—